


Ugly, Awkward

by Anarhichas



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Corporal Punishment, Crossdressing, Drunk Sex, M/M, Rape
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-23
Updated: 2015-05-23
Packaged: 2018-03-31 21:26:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3993433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anarhichas/pseuds/Anarhichas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’d regretted it as he’d struggled with the petticoat, and when the hard corset had been cinched tighter, inch by inch. He’d silently taken back his earlier optimism as he’d sat there and had his hair brushed and trimmed, lips painted, eyelashes darkened and eyebrows plucked into soft crescents. By the time the large bow around the high neck of his shirt had been done up, he’d wanted the earth to open up and swallow him.</p><p>It should have been a joke. It wasn’t.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ugly, Awkward

**Author's Note:**

> From a prompt on the SNK kinkmeme: http://snkkink.dreamwidth.org/3666.html?thread=5495634#cmt5495634
> 
> This was actually prompted, and I started to write a fill, before chapter 53 came out (the Armin-pretends-to-be-Historia-and-is-molested chapter). It's set at about the same time, but any similarity to the canon events is purely coincidence. Good coincidence, though, haha.
> 
> Anyway: concrit is very welcome! Thank you for reading :)

Armin knew he was in trouble the moment he realised that he’d been followed. The urge to run, to hide, crept over his skin like a thin, familiar layer of oil. His high heeled boots that clacked on the wooden floor stopped him from anything more than an unsteady walk as he carried on. The staircase felt endless. He didn’t dare look back.

The footsteps had caught up, now directly behind him, following him, far too heavy to be any of his teammates. The stairs they were on lead to the house’s private quarters, which had been explicitly labelled out of bounds – Armin should have been stopped and questioned by now, he knew. The presence of this unknown person at his back felt as heavy as bricks. Their breath came laboured, as if tired out by two flights of stairs. They didn’t say anything. Apart from the breathing and the footsteps, they were entirely silent.

Armin reached the landing and hesitated for a split-second. What to do now? What was there left to do? Continue with his alibi of having been asked to deliver a letter to the host’s office? Turn around, beg forgiveness for getting lost, and pray that that’ll be the end of it?

Above his knee-high white socks the air was bitingly cold. Under the tight waist of his absurd dress Armin felt like he could suffocate. He’d never been more utterly aware of his body, every hair and inch of skin, than he was now.

The evening had gone wrong from the start, when they’d realised that the host of the party had ordered three boys and three girls as servers, not the four boys and two girls their team consisted without Historia, who hadn’t dared show her face for fear of who might recognise her. Unable to do anything but send the required numbers or else blow their cover, it hadn’t seemed like such a terrible idea at the time. Wear a dress, be humiliated in the dark red and white, layered and laced monstrosity. Armin knew he looked feminine enough, and surely no one would look away from Mikasa long enough to notice something wrong with their third ugly, awkward girl.

He’d regretted it as he’d struggled with the petticoat, and when the soft fabric corset around his waist had been cinched tighter, inch by inch. He’d silently taken back his earlier optimism as he’d sat there and had his hair brushed and trimmed, lips painted, eyelashes darkened and eyebrows plucked into soft crescents. By the time the large bow around the high neck of his shirt had been done up he’d wanted the earth to open up and swallow him.

It should have been a joke. It wasn’t.

Armin turned, coming face to face with the man who now stood at the top of the staircase, close enough to touch. The man was not particularly tall, not quite half a head taller than Armin with his extra inches of boot heel, but lack of height was made up for in width. Stomach protruding, round faced with fat, ruddy sausage fingers, the man blocked the staircase. His mouth, half hidden behind a ginger moustache and beard long enough to touch his chest, smiled. Armin felt his heart drop, quick and cold, at the sight. It was the host of the party, Dieter Stabel, the eminent figure within the Wall Cult whom Erwin had wanted information on. There was no chance of pulling off the letter alibi now.

Armin stepped to one side, back to the wall, lowering his eyes respectfully and praying with a pounding heart that the Stabel would let him go. That he wouldn’t see through his disguise.

‘I’m so sorry, sir,” he said, anxiety making a slightly higher pitch come easy. “I mistook the staircase. I’ll go back down straight-away.’

One arm outstretched to place a hand on the banister, Stabel didn’t move from where he stood.

‘Come upstairs to pocket some of the wife’s jewellery, have you?’ His voice was deeper than Armin had expected it to be. It sounded amused.

Armin’s back straightened. His palms were sweating and he clutched at the voluminous layers of the dress’ skirt. ‘No, sir!’ he said. ‘I swear not, sir!’

It was disastrous – but then, he’d known that from the second he heard footsteps behind him, hadn’t he. If Stabel complained to the staffing company then they’d all be found out for sure. They’d not only lose their contact but any chance of finding out more on the sudden rumours springing up about a mysterious transport of assets, most significantly of all written documents. The Scouting Corps needed that information.

If Stable complained they’d all be found out, and they’d all be hanged.

‘I shouldn’t complain,’ Stabel said, stepping closer until Armin’s back pressed hard against the wall, cringing away from the small inches that separated him from Stabel’s overhanging gut. ‘You’d look a lot prettier in it than she does.’

Stabel smiled widely. His grey eyes looked more awake than they had when he'd been talking to his guests downstairs.

‘Please sir, I need to get back to work,’ Armin blurted, then stopped abruptly as Stabel’s hand reached out to cradle his jaw. The thumb stroked the corner of his mouth, tiny movements. Stabel’s second hand pressed flat against the inner curve of Armin’s thigh, where the skirt ended.

The urge to snap Stabel’s wrist flickered across Armin’s mind, sharp as lightning and gone just as quick. He slipped to the side instead, but the boots and Stabel making a grasp for his body made him stumble. A hand on his shoulder pushing down forced Armin to his knees, then over entirely on his side. Armin scrambled up to sitting, but again the boots stopped him from finding his feet, and he was left with his back pressed to the wall, and hands holding down the fabric of his skirt to the floor between his legs.

Stabel crouched down in front of him; Armin flinched as hands returned to grip his knees lightly, turning inwards to run as far up as he could before the skirt halted them. Beneath Stabel, Armin held deadly still, but he could feel the blood in his racing heart. Panic made his head swim. What should he do? If he stopped this, breaking free to run back downstairs, Stabel would charge him for theft – but if he didn’t, his disguise would be ruined.

Fear made him want to cry. Disgust crawled across his bare skin.

‘Sir,’ Armin said, quiet, and just perhaps he could still rescue this. Stabel had been watching all of his hired servers, not just Mikasa and Sasha, after all. ‘Please, sir. This is my sister’s job. She’s too ill to work; we need the money for a doctor. Please, I’m only her brother–'

Stabel’s hands tightened their grip and Armin faltered to a stop, forcing his eyes down to the floor.

‘Brother?’ Stabel sounded neutral. Armin’s heart pounded as he relaxed his grip on his skirt, letting the material rest lightly on his thighs. His fingers didn’t want to let go. He forced them to.

‘Yes, sir. We can’t afford to lose this job. Please don’t tell anyone, please sir. I’ll do anything you want.’

Stabel was silent, but the hands slipping further up Armin’s thighs spoke more than enough.


End file.
